Many Happy Returns
by LightOfGreySkies
Summary: Right after John watches Sherlock's birthday video, his hope returns that perhaps Sherlock is alive. Now a two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

The cool air from outside of the apartment filled the living room and gave it a slight draft, but to John Watson, the world felt completely still. Nothing seemed to move besides his unsteady quiet breath and his heart skipping a few beats. His shaking hand set the glass of whiskey in his hand onto the nearby coffee table, without his eyes straying even a centimeter from the man on the television. After he had returned from an unimportant phone call, he had played the last few seconds of the video. A single thought relayed itself in his mind over and over again, as he stared at Sherlock Holmes's winking face on his television screen.

_He's alive. He's alive. He's alive. Sherlock is alive_. The birthday video for him he had just watched was the first time he had seen Sherlock outside of photographs since that day. That horrible, pain stricken day. Even after two years, it still hurt John like an impalement to the chest to thinking about it, not unlike the sickened feeling he would get when he remembered the war, but almost worst. John was sucked back into the emotional whirlwind of memories, but it stopped at his recent realization. _Sherlock is alive_. He has to be.

There were emergences of thoughts that believed otherwise, voices of reason (although John didn't want to think of them like that) that said that an old video was not any sort of proof. The video had obviously been taken well before the day on the hospital roof, and all this was wishful thinking.

But to John, these thoughts were overshadowed by the immense hope this had given him. In the video, Sherlock seemed so real, like he was in the room, beside John, telling him he didn't want to go to dinner with him and all the other things he would say. John begin an imaginary conversation with Sherlock out loud.

"Sherlock, we need to go meet with Mycroft for dinner to discuss your case."

"I don't need his help, he is foolish and of no assistance to me with this project."

"Sherlock, he's the one that told you about it!"

John chuckled a bit, thinking about his slight insanity and that he did a pretty good impression of Sherlock's deep, baritone voice. And then thought of Sherlock in the video, how he said, "I'm going to be with you again very soon." Despite seeing his bleeding body on that pavement, John knew that Sherlock was way too clever to have gone like that, and that he was out there somewhere, preparing to show up at his door and say that what he said on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's about making up Moriarty was a lie, and all this had been for a reason.

It was just a matter of time before Sherlock used his deduction to someone figure out where John lived, popped up to his door and gave him an awkward Sherlock-type hug, a I-feel like-I-should-probably-do-this-seeing-as-I-fake-my-death-and-left-you-emotionally-distraught-for-two-years-but-I-don't-know-how-to-hug-so-this-awkward-arm-thing-happens-instead sort of thing. Despite how weird it would be, being close to Sherlock sounded incredible to John, feeling the warmth of his skin to remind himself that he is so alive.

John broke the stillness of the room to briskly grab the remote that lay beside his drink that he no longer felt necessary. He rewinded the video and played in again.

Watching more closely this time, he observed Sherlock's awkwardness, as he nervously paced back and forth across the room. Nervous seemed a bit out of character for him, perhaps it meant something.

"Of course I'm going to miss the dinner, there will be people!" John chuckled. Now this is much more like the Sherlock we know, with antisocial behavior and telling John that his friends hate him. It was oddly comforting for John, he had missed the bizarre way his flatmate seemed to care about him.

He played the video over and over again, treasuring the living, breathing Sherlock on the screen. He lost track of time after the seventh play or so, and took note of things he noticed to see what he could deduce. Sherlock would have wanted that, and hopefully still does.

"Only lies have detail." In that final phone call, although he didn't remember it well after that bash to the head, there were details, Sherlock had said that he had researched John and that he made up Moriarty. But the man said it himself - "only lies have detail."

"Don't worry, I am going to be with you again very soon," Sherlock's eyes looked straight into the camera, straight at John. John tried to remind himself that this was an old video, from the past he had spent with Sherlock, not now. It has been two years now, and John had gone on with his life, getting a girlfriend and a new home. Sherlock was part of a distant past, a buried relic of a long gone life. But something about the glint in Sherlock's eyes, that smile and wink he gave because it "humanizes him," it revitalized the hope that had been gone for so long, the hope of that man being out there somewhere, ready to come back and damn well explain himself.

John continued replaying the video, looking for clues of some kind, until his phone rang.

"Oh, shut up!" he shouted, then rushed to the insistent telephone.

"Hello?"

"John, it's me, Anderson." Why would Anderson be calling? John solely remembered him as a prime target of Sherlock's ridicule. He couldn't imagine Anderson having any business with him. They hadn't even spoken since what happened with Sherlock. He was just another part of the Sherlock's detective world that had been away.

"Anderson, yes? What do you need?" John spoke in a brisk, business-like tone.

"It's Sherlock. I found out some things about him. I think he is coming back. I just thought you would want to know," Anderson said. John's eyes widened.

"What did you find out? Have you been discussing it at Scotland Yard? Or with Lestrade? Where is he, Anderson?" His voice was speeding up and as the questions streaming out of his mouth were full of anticipation.

"Not Scotland Yard, I got sacked. They didn't believe me there, nor does Lestrade. But I am telling you, there is proof. You, of all people, have to believe me. You know he could pull off faking his death like that. You'd need a brilliant ass to pull something like that off, and he is just the brilliant ass to do it."

"Can I see the evidence you have then? We could meet for coffee and talk about it."

"Sure, how about at the coffee shop on Baker Street?" John hadn't been to Baker Street in a very long time, he now lived in a completely different part of London with his girlfriend Mary in the new flat he was now standing in. But Anderson had to have his reasons.

"Alright, tomorrow morning?" John asked.

"Sounds good. And, John. I am serious about this. He is coming back. I know it." Anderson certainly had an unmistakable mix of confidence and hope in his voice. John just really hoped he was actually on to something and it wasn't just longing and insanity speaking. But sometimes, all you really need is hope, and right now, he had more of it than he had in two years.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. How about nine o'clock?"

"Right. And...John," Anderson paused, "You want him back, don't you? I mean, he was not kind to you by any means, and I'm sure your life has been more peaceful since..it happened."

"Anderson," John was still, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. "Sherlock was my best friend. I saw my best friend jump off of a building. I saw his bloodied corpse on the ground. No matter how long time tries to heal this, it still is a festering wound that will never disappear. And the only bloody chance that it would was if I saw the man again, somehow alive and well, and he healed it for me. I need him back, Anderson. And I damn well hope you are onto something."

Stunned silence embodied the phone call for several long seconds. Not a sound was heard from Anderson's side of the line until he broke the silence with,

"I know. I really think he is coming back though. But I also hope you will be okay if it doesn't end up that way." John now regretting adding such tension to the phone call. He had calmed down some.

"Me too," John said more gently, "I will talk to you tomorrow then. Goodbye."

"Okay, bye John."

John put down the phone, and returned to the couch. He continued replaying the video countless times, until the hours grew late and he fell asleep on the couch, the video finished and stopped at Sherlock's winking face, as though he was watching over John sleeping, making his previous message known.

"I am going to be with you again very soon."

* * *

**AN-**

**I hope you enjoyed ! This was pretty much my first fanfic, so please tell me how I did. There should be more coming out soon.**

**Have a lovely day! ^^**


	2. Chapter 2

John took a heavy, deep breath in, as though letting air stream into his lungs could also allow some understanding of the past few days in too. It had been over a month since he had first watched the birthday video. Waking up with that immense hope after watching it all night felt like a distant past. His life had changed so much since then in utterly unbelievable ways, and he still didn't feel his mind strong enough to grasp it. John laid in his bed beside his fast asleep fiancee, wide awake and drowning in his own deep thoughts. He had no idea of what the time was, he just was certain he had been staring at the ceiling for hours. He knew he had every reason to sleep, with the sleeping pills he had taken a few hours before, and more importantly, his wedding tomorrow. But he was plagued with a mass of disorganized thoughts that refused to let him rest. To try to make sense of it all, he replayed the tracks in his mind since he saw the video, memories that, oddly enough, seemed more vivid than those from the two years before it.

It started the day after the video. He awoke on his couch with a blanket over his body. He vaguely remembered his dreams from the night, which largely consisted of him and Sherlock living in 221B again, and Sherlock almost burning the house down for some reason. Still very drowsy, he went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. Upon walking through the threshold, his sleep-ridden eyes met the blonde hair, kind eyes, and gently smiling face of Mary Morstan.

"I hope you kept warm on the couch there," she said as she leaned against the counter, waiting for her tea to be ready. "Want some?"

"Right, sure," John said, his vision clearing up as he rubbed his eyes. "You gave me the blanket, right?"

"Yes, you looked quite cold, but I didn't want to wake you up. What were you doing on the couch anyway?"

"Oh, I was um.." John racked his mind for a decent way to answer this. It's not that he didn't want to tell her, he just wasn't certain that "I watched a video of a dead man for three straight hours" would sound sane. "I was watching the TV, and I guess I just fell asleep." That sounded normal enough. "And Lestrade stopped by, he gave me some of Sherlock's old stuff," he added, trying to be casual about it.

"Like what?" she asked. John then realized he had yet to really look through the box.

As John's eyes wandered through the small-talk filled kitchen, they landed on the clock, which alerted him that the time was 8:42. He remembered that he was to be meeting Anderson very soon, and was probably going to be late already.

"Mary, sorry, I have to go," he hastily grabbed his beige jacket and gathered his things into its pockets, adding, "I am meeting a friend for lunch."

Mary seemed a bit taken aback by his sudden actions, but she, "well, okay. I guess I'll have this big pot of tea for myself then. Have fun, John. I'm glad you are socializing more." she smiled and gave him a quick kiss, they exchanged "I love you"s, and John went out the door.

* * *

The insomnia ridden John of the future rolled his eyes a bit when he remembered his meeting with Anderson. The candle of hope that he had felt in seeing Baker Street for the first time in so long with a possibility that he might walk it with Sherlock once again was abruptly burned out when he witnessed Anderson and his diminished mental health talking almost like an old conspiracy theorist yelling at a street corner. As John first arrived at the coffee shop and approached Anderson, he quickly noticed that his neatly trimmed, professional looking former self had been replaced by a mad man with a beard and a worn out sweater. Trying not to make judgments before even talking to him, John and Anderson sat down and begin discussing matters.

It appeared that Anderson had an entire notebook, chock full of everything Sherlock, from theories of him surviving the fall to what colour scarf he will wear upon his return. He was flipping through his notebook, reading off various notes to John at a rapid speed he had no hope of keeping up with. It was clear that Anderson had become something of an expert on this. He gave John several of his theories as to how he survived the fall. But the more he talked, the more far-fetched and illogical the return of Sherlock seemed to be. John had seen Sherlock's dead body with his own eyes, there was no mistaking that that was Sherlock. And no matter how well thought out, Anderson's theories made little sense. _ Honestly, how could Sherlock have been on an invisible rope that sprang him back upwards while they put Moriarty's body in his place?_ None of it made sense. Anderson's words gave John the sinking feeling that thinking Sherlock was alive was merely wishful thinking.

John did not express his doubt though. But he drowned out Anderson's continued talking with a pool of his own thoughts. All this talk of Sherlock had picked open that dreadful wound he had from two years ago, a wound that was almost healed, but now was beginning to fester all over again. But now the truth was hitting John painfully like a barrage of burning bricks.

Sherlock is dead. That is not going to change. You saw him dead on the pavement, John. It couldn't have been a magic trick. The bluntness of the thought caused him to flinch, like the emotional pain of all this equated to a physical wound. Anderson took no notice, and continued talking.

Then he heard it again. A quiet voice out of the corner of his head, one that had been absent for a while, but not as long as the person behind the voice had been gone. When John was alone at 221B after the fall, he often heard Sherlock speaking to him, saying all the things Sherlock loves to say, mostly telling him that he needs to think more. It began to drive him mad, which was largely why he moved. He hadn't heard his voice in a long time, but these thoughts must have brought it back.

_John. You need to move on. Dwelling on this will not help anyone. You have a good life here. Live it._ Despite being deeply out of character for the real Sherlock to say, the deep, caring voice of Sherlock in John's head was right.

Anderson babbling all the while, John sighed, and he began to stand up from his chair. Anderson finally stopped talking to take notice.

"John, what are you doing?" he asked.

"Sorry. I...I need to go. I forgot, I had a thing today." John chuckled internally as he remembered Sherlock saying the same thing in the video. He began to make his way out of the coffee shop. Anderson was taken aback by his abrupt departure. He scrambled to gather the papers he had splayed out on the table, and shouted after John.

"Okay. but keep in touch, tell me if you have any ideas. I have a group that I think you would-"

"Right, right. Thank you for your...help. Goodbye Anderson." With that, he went out the door of the coffee shop, back onto the overcast day on Baker Street. Without anything else to do, he went back home with his head held down and his hope diminished.

* * *

Things went back to normal after that, for a month anyway. John shooed thoughts of Sherlock from his mind, knowing they are unhealthy, and just continued his normal life in the doctor's office. Mary was of great help with this. Several months ago, she had fished him out of the hell he was in, and made life more than tolerable, which is much better than he would have expected after losing Sherlock. Now, after several months of their close, intimate relationship, John knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was stowed away in a tiny box he had been hiding from Mary ever since he spent quite a lot of money on it. John had decided that night that the time was now - this would be the night he asked Mary for her hand in marriage. They had a dinner date, John had been rehearsing his proposal in his head while pacing across his home in a suit, anxiously waiting for his cab, ready for what could be the best and most important night of his life.

As it turned out, it may have not been the best, but it was certainly a hell of an important day. John was sitting in the restaurant, his words jumbling into soup as he tried to make proper sentences. He had never been as nervous as he was right then, trying to propose to Mary. Then, the one thing that couldn't possibly happen. Living, breathing Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a waiter, right in front of him. John may have been a bit more happy to see him if he didn't show up out of absolute nowhere _right in the middle of his proposal._ Over the several days after that, there was one thought ruminating in his mind more than anything.

_Sherlock, I had almost forgotten how much of a cock you are._

From his horrible entrance and even worse timing in the restaurant, to that moment in the train car, Sherlock's return also meant the return of him being a massive, insufferable prick. John felt that despite his lack of understanding for social situations, he should know not to show up after being dead for two years in a mustache and more importantly in the middle of an engagement proposal! And making him certain he was going to die in that train car, scaring the living life out of him, just for fun!?

John hadn't realized how much he missed it until now. As he reflected upon the past month in the dead of night in his bed, he couldn't help but smile a bit. He missed not just Sherlock's complete disregard for social norms, but his brilliant understanding of everything that happened around him, and just the fact that he was there. John's best friend was back in his life, and despite the fact that his best friend is a massive ass, he couldn't imagine it any other way.

Now with his wedding tomorrow, and Sherlock attending, everything that had been broken into shards was starting to come together again. John could not help but to look forward to this new chapter in his life. He rolled over in his bed into a comfortable position, pressed his body against Mary's, and for the first time in a long while, John felt happy.

**AN- **

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter. This is my first fanfic, so please tell me how I am doing. Criticism is welcome, but please don't be mean and awful about it. Have a lovely day! **


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